


Long Hard Road

by darthneko



Series: Dominion [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Character Death, M/M, Murder, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Recovery, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/darthneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When everything has fallen apart and nothing can be trusted, recovery is a dim dream down a long hard road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Hard Road

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dominion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/259884) by [Jarakrisafis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis). 



> Once upon a time, Jarakrisafis wrote a story called _Dominion_ , based on a slave-code prompt on the kink meme. And it crawled under my skin and into my head in all the right ways, and inspired this. ^_^ And then, because Jarakrisafis is awesome, she let me play in her 'verse. Thank you!
> 
> You really really need to read _Dominion_ before you read this. The scenario is set there - this is just the ugly aftermath.
> 
> PS - there are lyrics at the end of the chapters. Don't worry, it's not a song fic, the story has just developed a soundtrack. ^_^ I'll do a proper list of it when it's all done.

It was one year and sixty eight days from The Event when it all finally came to an end.

"The Event". Everything in his processor, every memory file, every code string, every carefully worded and monitored thought, was archived according to that. Before The Event. After The Event.

One year, sixty eight days, as the local planetary units counted. There had been times he had almost given up hope, but patience was the virtue the humans claimed it was and brought its own rewards. Four hundred and thirty two earth days, sixteen hours, twelve minutes, and seventeen seconds after The Event, they brought Mirage in to Ratchet's medbay, the spy's limp frame covered in energon and the smoking remnants of a blast that had clipped clean through his upper chest armor, shattering his chassis, arm and shoulder rotary completely gone, metal melted and twisted around still sparking wires.

For one terrible moment Ratchet had thought the Tower mech was already deactivated and his spark gave a lurch at the thought. It had put an entirely proper waver in his voice when he directed Wheeljack to help him get the wounded mech to one of the intensive support berths, and didn't ease until the berth sensors came up with living - albeit critical - readings of stasis locked systems.

Wheeljack's grip on his shoulder was firm and meant to be reassuring. "He's functioning," the engineer was saying, hushed and urgent, as though the words alone might hold back the ticking of the clock. "Skyfire brought him straight back, he only dropped into stasis as they were landing. We've got time, he'll be fine. I'll get Hoist..."

"No," Ratchet said. His hands were already in motion across the oh-so-familiar chassis of the blue and white spy, cutting away slagged armor plates to get at the seared circuits and severed fluid lines beneath. He made his voice steady, all business, as much of the indomitable CMO of the Ark as he could. "There'll be other wounded - they need you more. I can do this."

Wheeljack started to protest - Ratchet could feel it in the tightened grip on his shoulder, knew exactly what words were next on the other mech's vocalizer - but the medic cut him off. "I can _do_ this," he said, firmly. "You and Hoist get a triage line started for the wounded, grab First Aid to assist you as soon as Defensor is off the field."

"Ratch'..." The engineer's voice was equal parts sympathy and support and Ratchet shuttered his optics briefly, cycling a deeper ventilation.

"I'll be alright," he made himself say. "I _have_ to do this."

That had been twenty-six minutes earlier. It had taken Ratchet that long to stabilize the spy's systems, working with urgent, steady haste to clamp off leaking lines and repair critical circuits. Wheeljack had returned when First Aid had come in, slipping into place beside Ratchet with the ease of long familiarity, their hands working in tandem. Hoist looked in on them twice, brought tubing and tools without asking, setting them nearby silently with a consoling brush against Ratchet's shoulder that the senior medic didn't acknowledge. It was only when they brought Sunstreaker in, the frontliner's pained yells almost drowned out by First Aid's frantic call for assistance, that he wavered.

Wheeljack, seeing it, had pressed a hand to Ratchet's forearm. "He's going to be fine," he said softly, and it wasn't the overly loud frontliner in the outer medbay that he was talking about. The engineer looked at the berth readouts and gave Ratchet's arm a squeeze. "Almost done. Vital signs are better." His smile, behind his face guard, was visible only in the lightening of his optics. "Told you he'd pull through. Finish up here - I'll go help First Aid hold the twins down." Ratchet had nodded, barely looking up, too focused on the work beneath his hands.

Four hundred and thirty two earth days, sixteen hours, forty-two minutes, and three seconds after The Event, Mirage online in medbay to the sight of Ratchet's face as the medic leaned over him, the faintest of frowns creasing his optic ridges. "I've taken your pain sensors offline," Ratchet told him, quietly hushed. "You shouldn't be in any pain. You're not, right?"

Mirage nodded, slowly, and Ratchet's lips twisted into a faint smile of relief, his hand cupping the spy's helm. "Good. That's good. You took a near point-blank blast - half a hand closer and it would have been your spark. Skyfire rushed you back here, thank Primus."

Ratchet stroked the back of his fingers across the side of the wounded mech's facial plating, his other hand, pressed to the most undamaged portion of the spy's chassis, traced light circles across the charred armor. Leaning down, he vented the words softly against Mirage's audials. "I've also disabled your comms and your vocalizer... Master."

Mirage's optics flared bright, almost white, and Ratchet smiled. "I'm sorry this has to be rushed. We have a lot of wounded this time around. Please don't try moving. I had to take the majority of your servo links offline as well. Also, I'm afraid, with your sensors offline, you won't feel this." The hand that had been rubbing soft circles slipped beneath the remnants of Tower armor, hooking an insulated fluid line, energon pulsing faintly pink through the tubing as Ratchet teased it into view. Mirage's mouth opened, no sound issuing forth, and Ratchet's smile never slipped as he took the fluid line between the fingers of both hands. "Pity," he said gently, and tore the line in two, hot energon gushing out over his fingers to spill across Mirage's chassis.

The tension lines in the spy's throat arched as he tried to move, hydraulics hissing futilely. Ratchet patted his chest, leaving energon prints streaked across the white armor, and fished out another energon line, ripping the entire length free in one sharp jerk. "You will," he noted conversationally, "be able to see the alerts on your HUD. I'm sure there's a few errors popping up already. There's going to be more, but you shouldn't be feeling any pain."

He cupped Mirage's cheek again, fresh energon on his fingers smearing across the spy's open mouth as he pressed his thumb to Mirage's lips. "You're going to have to indicate to me if you're in pain," the medic said seriously. "I can't follow orders, Master, if you don't tell me." The light, nuzzling press of the medic's mouth against the spy's cheek was a mockery of a kiss, the words vented in a low hiss of the first darkly unpleasant tone he had used. "You know how much I _want_ to follow orders." A tugging jerk, pressure and release, was the only thing Mirage could feel, but there was no mistaking the tubing that Ratchet's hand flung aside, blue lubricant spraying in an arc.

Two more jerks, energon lines tearing somewhere deep in Mirage's chassis. Ratchet was watching him, the medic's face serene. "You should have enough energon left in your tank and lines for a little less than half a breem - call it three and a half minutes before your pressure drops to critical," he said, in the same tone he lectured First Aid in when tutoring the Protectobot. "That first line was part of your spark feed. It's going to take us three minutes to re-thread that line alone, which is the most crucial." He smiled, the expression lightening his optics to a warm, pleased blue. His hands tucked the first broken line back beneath Mirage's armor, palm wiping the spilled energon into a shapeless mess. "Assuming Hoist finds it before you drain out, of course. Because Wheeljack was right - I'm _much_ too emotional to be working on my critically wounded mate."

Immobilized, silenced, Mirage could only watch as Ratchet's expression cleared, the medic cycling two deep ventilations before unshuttering his optics. The panic that swept across his face could almost have been genuine except for how it never touched the medic's optics, and the rough, static laced sound of his vocalizer was the crowning glory of an act that was meant to be seen through by one mech alone. "Hoist! Oh Primus... Hoist! First Aid! _Help!_ "

* * * * *

There were days when a mech couldn't help but think that maybe Primus had it out for them, when the deck was stacked against the Autobots and there wasn't a break to be caught. There were days when Jazz hated the whole damned slagging universe.

There were days when 'hate' wasn't a strong enough word.

They knew. Everyone knew, the news spreading faster than wildfire through the Ark long before the official wounded and casualty list was released. The air in the medbay was stark and silent, thick with everything that wasn't being said, mechs looking down and away rather than meet one another's optics. Everyone who wasn't wounded had been firmly escorted out; even Sideswipe, who normally couldn't be pried from his twin's side, had left without a word. The wounded themselves, those with missing limbs or frame damage that needed additional care, were all quiet on their berths and not a one of them said a thing as Jazz passed.

The was nothing but empty berths close to the door that separated the critical care portion of the medbay. Jazz walked past them, head high and back struts held tight. Only when the door had closed behind him did he let the tension in his shoulders ease, gravity dragging at the struts like the weight of an entire city former.

Primus, he hated this.

Mirage lay stretched out on the berth, helm tipped to the side, and if it wasn't for the creeping gray degradation of nanite deactivation which was spreading in slow-cooling patches through the Tower mech's sleek white and blue frame it might have been possible to mistake the stillness for recharge. Someone had cleaned; there wasn't a trace of energon left on the berth or Mirage's frame, no tools, nothing to show all of the frantic work that had been done.

Too little. Too late. Too much damage.

Jazz forced his steps to the edge of the berth, laying a hand on the gray splotched surface of Mirage's cracked chassis. The metal was still and cool under his hand, with no thrum of power plant or spark and no heat from energon lines. Just inanimate armor plating, cold and dead duryllium. Jazz bowed his head, memory files of the other mech's slow smile and the cultured voice that had never lost the tones of the Towers flooding his processor.

"He drained out," Hoist had told him when he had asked, the medic's voice a low, ragged whisper. "There was more damage than we thought, the lines burst under pressure. He just… drained out. We couldn't stop it. Once it reached his spark…"

"Containment failure," Jazz had finished heavily, shuttering his optics. "Least it was quick an' he never felt it. That's good."

Hoist hadn't said anything and when Jazz had looked back the other mech's optics had been so dark they were almost gray. "He was awake," the medic had admitted. "He came back online right before it happened. He couldn't speak but… he was awake until the drain dropped him into stasis." Hoist had dropped his head into his hands, his vocalizer rough with static and the broken whine of feedback. "Oh Primus… Ratchet… Ratchet held his hand right up until the end. Told him it was going to be okay. Made sure he wasn't in pain. I… I tried… there were so many leaks, he'd lost so much already…"

Jazz had delivered Hoist into Grapple's capable hands. First Aid, he was reasonably sure, had been scooped up by his gestalt the moment he could be liberated from the medbay, and was probably in the group's joint quarters somewhere at the bottom of a pile of his mates. Perceptor and Wheeljack had taken the third shift, keeping watch over the medbay once everyone was stable.

Jazz touched his fellow spy's cheek, fingertips tracing the edge of a darkened optic. "Ah, Mirage," he breathed. "Gonna miss ya, mah mech. You're leavin' one Pit of a hole behind ya."

The sound of a door jerked him up and oh, Primus… Ratchet had entered from the far side, an unmarked door that lead, Jazz knew, to one of the places supplies were kept and a tiny recharge berth that the medics used if a critical patient couldn't be left alone. The senior medic was slow to focus on him and even when he did his expression never changed, his optics focusing right through Jazz as though the 3IC wasn't even there.

Deactivated mechs left behind skills that their thin ranks could ill afford to lose. Deactivated mechs left behind rattled acquaintances, grieving friends, mourning brothers in arms.

The CMO's step was slow and steady, nothing at all like his normal brisk march. The crimson red of his hand against the fading gray of Mirage's plating was an obscenely bright splash of color, one that burned through Jazz's optics as Ratchet gently reached out, tipping the deceased mech's helm back into position.

Deactivated mechs left behind shattered, broken lovers and Jazz hated the universe with a passion that left him cold and aching inside.

"Ratch'…" he started, but the medic slipped away as though he hadn't heard, retreating, the berth and Mirage's empty frame between them.

He had brought a handful of cleaning cloths and a jar; the smell of wax, rich and fine, exploded into the small room the moment the lid came free. Ratchet scooped out a finger full of it on one of the cloths, smoothing it down the line of Mirage's chassis with a quick, practiced touch. "The color nanites deactivate within two hours of spark loss," he remarked quietly, with no more inflection that a singularly under-enthused Academy instructor. "That's really no excuse, though. Mirage was… very particular about his finish."

Oh, Primus. Oh, Pit. Oh, Unmaker take it all, Jazz was _not_ equipped to deal with this. None of them were, and he wouldn't have been there at all if Prowl had any social skills and if Prime hadn't been in medical recharge after the blow he'd taken to the helm had knocked his gyros loose.

No. That was a lie. He would be, because Mirage was one of _his_ , and by default that made Mirage's mate one of his as well. He'd congratulated them both when they'd finally come clean about their new relationship, teased Mirage when the Tower mech showed up with recharge dimmed optics for first duty shift, teased Ratchet when the medic had been so sweetly attentive to his lover. There had been rumor - and some hope - that they might both be old fashioned enough to actually bond.

Thank Primus, thank the Matrix, thank _everything_ that they hadn't, or else Mirage's frame wouldn't be the only one laying there and the Autobots would be mourning not only one of their best spies, but their best medic as well. If there was anything at all to be thankful for, it was that.

But that still left Ratchet. Ratchet, who had held Mirage's hand to the very end. Ratchet, who had not changed expression one iota since he had entered the room. Ratchet, who was studiously polishing the cold, graying plates of the mech whose berth he had onlined in that very morning. Ratchet, who was…

…humming.

It was an old tune from Cybertron, and it took Jazz several moments to match it to an audio file because Ratchet's vocalizer was softly droning the melody line of what had been an upbeat bass heavy club piece, at a distant and distracted half speed. It was one of Jazz's earliest files - Ratchet, he guessed, had probably been a young medic, fresh from the Academy, when it had hit the netlinks.

Jazz shuttered his optics, silently cursing the universe at large. There was no good way to do this. There never was. "Ratchet…"

"Hmm?" The humming, mercifully, cut off. Ratchet's optics, when he looked up, were too bright by half, his expression unchanged, and oh, Jazz didn't need to be a medic to know the signs of shock when he saw them. "Yes, Jazz?"

Talking. Jazz needed to get him talking, needed to get the medic to focus. He kept his voice soft and smooth, kept his hands steady as he reached out, just brushing the medic's fingers with his own. "Ah'm right here, Ratchet. You're not alone."

The medic's optics flickered and when his expression shifted it was almost worse than the blank stillness, white lips curving into a small, distant smile. "Thank you, Jazz, but it's really not necessary."

Oh, Primus slag it to the Pit. Jazz ached with it, clear through his spark - ached with the barely held back grief of losing another comrade, another friend, another one of _his_ mechs, and ached with a tank deep hurt for the brittle shell of a different friend, ached to be able to help and knew it was a slim chance at best. "Ah think it is. Ah think a lot of mechs would agree with me. If ya need to talk, if ya need a shoulder, anything ya need - Ah'm here."

Ratchet glanced away. His fingers were still and quiet against Jazz's own, slick with wax, and there were unscrubbed splashes of dried energon stained vibrant pink against the white plates of his arms. "Talk…" he murmured quietly, then shrugged. "Why not?" His gaze, when it met Jazz's, was the same still nothingness that it had been before.

"I killed him."

Reflexive prayer wasn't helping because Primus wasn't listening and the universe was a cold-sparked slagmaker that didn't give a damn. Ratchet's hands were warm in his, Mirage's plating cold and gray; Jazz wanted to keen with the unfairness and ache of it, the echoes of it scrubbing static through his vocalizer. "No… no, Primus, no. Ratch', no. It's not your fault. It's _not_. Ya did everything you could…"

That distant, brittle smile returned, stretching in mockery over the medic's faceplates. "I think I know exactly what I did, Jazz. Believe me, I _know_. I killed him."

He was _not_ equipped to deal with this. Not on his own. Jazz opened his comm and pinged Wheeljack, knowing the engineer was less than two rooms away and was one of Ratchet's oldest friends. There was a time and place for the traditional privacy given to the grieving and there was a time and place to _slag tradition_ because this was a path Ratchet shouldn't - _couldn't_ \- go down. This was a path that was only going to end in the worst spark ache Jazz could think of, and above and beyond the pain of it he could _not_ , as the third in command and the tactical head of special ops, let it happen. The Autobots couldn't _afford_ it. "Ratchet, _no._ No, ya didn't. It's not your fault. It's not…"

"Yes," the medic said gently, twisting his hands free from Jazz's hold, "I did." He turned his smile on the cold frame between them, cupping Mirage's cheek in one palm, his voice quiet and almost tender. "Left ventral arterial energon line, removed. Central lubricant bypass, removed. Two sub-arterial energon lines - central and aft - pulled loose from their bypass coupling." The smile broadened slightly and Ratchet's optics lightened as he patted the deactivated spy's cheek fondly. "Arterial line to the spark feed torn apart. _That_ was the one that really drove it home to him." Glancing up, he met Jazz's optics without hesitation. "If Hoist does the final autopsy, he'll find it."

The cold flooding Jazz's lines was worse than the absolute vacuum of space. He had, over the vorns of the war, seen mechs break. He'd seen strong mechs fall down screaming, he'd seen quiet mechs no one thought twice about snap and take down entire squadrons of 'Cons, or worse, their own comrades. He'd seen the long, helpless slide into despair, the ones who drowned in it, the ones who tried to stand tall against it until they broke, the ones who armored themselves with hardened layers around their spark. The ones who turned to drink or code stimulants, the ones who turned to the berth, the ones who couldn't think beyond the next battle. Obsession, apathy, anger, fear, depression… he had seen all of it and more.

He had _never_ seen anything like the small, pleased, almost proud smile Ratchet was giving him, the medic's hand - still splashed with energon - gently stroking his former mate's helm.

The door behind him slid back, Jazz's anterior sensors automatically cataloguing the familiar vibration of Wheeljack's steps. "Jazz…?"

The 3IC flung up one hand, stopping the engineer cold at the door. His comms were already open - reflex made him code the next signal in authority codes, the orders broadcast on tightbeam bursts. _::Red Alert - Prowl - Ironhide - Report to Medbay Immediately::_

He wanted to deny. He wanted to protest, to disbelieve, but the medic's smile and brightened optics made the question of belief a secondary concern at best - mechs who snapped could be dangerous, to themselves, to others, and his first priority had to be the safety of everyone involved. Talking. It was best to keep the mech talking, and Jazz vented a quick cycle of air, trying for a calm he didn't feel. "Why would ya say that?" he asked softly.

It was a mild question, nothing but filler, really, something to keep the mech in crisis talking and interacting. He kept his tone mild, nothing but bland query, nothing accusatory or inflammatory in it. There was nothing, so far as Jazz could tell, that would cause Ratchet to stiffen, every strut in the medic's heavy frame snapping rigid, and the dark, seething _fury_ that crossed the medic's faceplates almost made him take a step back, his own hydraulics tensing, battle protocols spinning up.

It was gone as quickly as it came, but it left the medic's eyes a deep, cobalt blue, mouth pressed into a tense, ugly line of anger, and the whole of it focused directly on Jazz. "Because it's true," Ratchet said, and what had been gentle in his vocalizer before was now pure duryllium, hard and sharp and furious. "Because I did it. I _enjoyed_ it."

Three pings had come back, all requested mechs on their way, but Jazz switched the frequency of his broadcast from order to distress _::now now now backup needed NOW::_ , urgent and on alert. Wheeljack was at the door, stunned and frozen, and the fact that he was bodily between Ratchet and the engineer gave Jazz some relief - his own systems were primed, and the advantage Ratchet had in mass and height was one that Jazz was more than familiar with overcoming if it came to that. He rocked gently forward on his pedes, just enough to give him a few nanokilks of extra speed if he had to move, the motion disguised in the careful raising of his hands, palms up, servos limp - _look, no danger, no threat_. "Why?"

Ratchet's expression never changed, simmering fury and anger turned on the 3IC, his voice flat, only his optics flaring in a bright and dark pulse with emotion. "Because he _deserved_ it," he spat.

The door cycled open once more - Ironhide, Jazz identified without turning, and Red Alert's steps hurrying through the outer medbay right behind him. Ratchet tensed, coiled, and Jazz desperately reached out his hands. "Don't move!"

Ratchet, to Jazz's surprise, froze, something dark and almost pained sweeping across his face, but he stayed where he was, unmoving, and Jazz dared to cycle a ventilation. "Please," he added, softer. "Please, don't do anything rash." Red Alert was pinging him repeatedly, demanding an explanation - Jazz packaged the relevant memory files and transmitted them to all three mechs behind him, hearing Ironhide's low oath, the high, tight hum of Red Alert's battle protocols coming online, and Wheeljack's choked denial. Ratchet, however, was only looking at him, and Jazz tried to make his voice as reassuring as he could. "Ratch'… please. Just… come with meh. We'll get t' the bottom of this, alright? It'll be okay. It will. Just… nice and easy, alright? Nothing but friends here. It's okay…"

He was braced for just about anything, any outburst the medic might make. Instead, Ratchet only smiled, tight and bitter. "Of course," he said quietly. The medic kept his hands raised, palms up, as he stepped around the medical berth, offering no resistance when Ironhide took his arm in a grip that was half hold and half support - the weapon specialist had seen more than his fair share of crisis mechs as well. His darkened gaze, however, never left Jazz and that look, almost as flat as deactivation, made Jazz feel sicker than he had thought possible.

Primus wasn't listening and there weren't enough words in any language for how much Jazz hated what they all had to do sometimes.

* * * * *

  


  
_Is it over yet? :: In my head :: This will be all over soon  
Pour salt into the open wound :: You take the breath right out of me  
You left a hole where my heart should be :: You gotta fight just to make it through  
'Cause I will be the death of you_   



End file.
